Understanding
by Aeryn Phoenix
Summary: Alistair/Fem!Mahariel centric drabbles. Two people raised by different cultures are bound to have trouble coming to an understanding. Sometimes the less they try, the easier it becomes, and needing each other becomes more important than being right.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Alistair/Fem!Mahariel centric drabbles. Friendship? Romance? Neither? Eh, make of it what you will. I have no idea where it's going or if it will even be a cohesive story of any kind, or if it's just my muse have random hissy fits because of my refusal to write a full length DA:O fic. I'll try my best to keep them in some sort of order at the very least. There's no real description of this Dalish, so picture her how you will. I've never written a fic in present tense, but I'm trying to get back into the mindset of mod writing, so this whole story will read like this first chapter. Reviews are always welcome, of course.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Dragon Age: Origins, Alistair, any other NPC/place/plot device/etc. I suppose I should take responsibility for this nameless, faceless Dalish elf.

* * *

"We don't have time for this." The Dalish woman steps over the dying, gore-covered soldier, her mind set on leading them deeper into the Wilds. "Let's go."

"'Don't have time'?" She stops and peers back over her shoulder at Alistair's disbelieving expression. He has not moved to follow her, and the other two shemlen, the Grey Warden recruits like her, are looking questioningly from her to Alistair and back again. The man on the ground moans, too weak to ask for help again. _It would be mercy to put him out of his misery_, she thinks as she fingers the hilt of her skinning knife. Alistair crosses his arms over his chest. "Are you late for an appointment or something?"

_No_, she bitterly berates him in her mind, _I'm only _dying_, burning up from the inside out from this tainted sickness while you fools seek every excuse to stand around and delay our tasks. Don't worry – I hardly expect a shem to give a damn about the suffering of any of my kind._

But instead, she bites off, "Do what you must, then, but make it quick." She paces restlessly, her eyes flickering across the thick underbrush along the path.

_The Creators know you would never do the same for a wounded elf._

Alistair gives her a reproachful, perhaps even confused glance, but kneels to bandage the lone survivor. As soon as the soldier limps off back toward the camp, one of the other recruits, the tall, stupid one who calls himself a knight, begins to rant and whine about the unfairness of putting them in danger. What does the idiot think it means to become a Grey Warden? It makes her want to do them all a favor and put an arrow through his eye.

"You sound like a coward to me," she snaps when he finally stops wagging his lips for more than a heartbeat.

The fool stammers some excuse, and Alistair supports him with some weak claim of fear being natural. Do they not even know the difference between caution and cowardice? "Few relish the thought of meeting darkspawn up close," he adds, as though hoping to coax some sort of confession from her. "I know I don't."

She remembers the beasts she faced only days before, the ones who slowed her desperate search for Tamlen. Rationally she knows that those few lost moments could never make up for the two days she had lain abed, being cared for and healed while Tamlen surely suffered alone, but the more adamant parts of her _scream_ for vengeance.

She has true cause to hate the darkspawn. Whereas these others see some grand picture of saving the world from a Blight, to her it is a personal debt that the beasts _must_ repay. If the only way to get satisfaction for the loss of her missing companion is to slay as many darkspawn as she can for the rest of her life, then she will do so with a smile upon her face. Tamlen deserves that much from her. He would do the same in her place, she knows this.

"I, for one, look forward to killing them," she informs them, her malice and hatred seeping through her words.

Alistair's eyebrows lift and his tone drips with false sweetness. "Bloodthirstiness is such a charming feature. Did you know that?"

She barks out a harsh laugh before she can stop herself, her boots carrying her away from the staring shemlen men. "There is nothing I could do or say that would possibly make your people believe any worse of the Dalish than they do now."

The other recruit, the dark haired thief, chuckles and falls into step with the others behind her. "Aye, true enough that. You should've sacrificed at least one of us to your pagan gods by now."

She fights back a smirk. It is possible that she might have liked this man, were he not human and obnoxiously lecherous. She is definitely not willing to show him that she finds him entertaining.

"Tempting," she murmurs with a narrow-eyed glance at the balding knight, a look that does not go unnoticed by the only true Grey Warden present.

Alistair regards her with something akin to suspicion and perhaps just a drop or curiosity, but she does not care what he thinks of her. The darkspawn sickness churns in her veins, burning beneath her skin like a festering wound and pushing all thoughts aside. She sends a silent prayer to Elgar'nan that she will survive these trials and get her chance to rain much-deserved vengeance down upon the darkspawn.


	2. Chapter 2

It means nothing to her.

He tells her that he is a prince, the bastard son of King Maric, the lone survivor of the Theirin bloodline, and she just _stands there_, leaning slightly on her longbow, and giving him an expectant look like she is waiting for him to get to the important part. "That's…all I had to tell you," he finishes lamely when she says nothing.

"Oh." Her brows draw together in thought. "And…this is significant somehow…?"

For a moment, he thinks she is making fun of him. From anyone else, the words would almost certainly be mockery, but she is very difficult for him to read, impossible even sometimes. Her expressions, her customs, her body language, even the ancient elvish words that slip from her mouth occasionally, all of it is _alien_ to him. Though he has become accustomed to some small things – he no longer finds her twisting tattoos quite so creepy, and he has stopped being distracted by the revealing cut of her Dalish leathers – he is often reminded that he will never fully understand his fellow Grey Warden. He is not really sure he wants to either.

"It…might be," he manages to answer with a hapless shrug, determined to keep his tone casual. "I just wanted you to know, since Eamon is likely to bring it up at some point, and I wouldn't want you to think I'm keeping secrets from my fellow Grey Warden."

The corner of her mouth twitches and Alistair blinks in surprise when he realizes she is considering smiling. "Everyone is allowed secrets," she states coolly before her expression goes thoughtful again. "We Dalish do not have rulers or successions like you shemlen. Does…does this mean you are to be king, then?"

Just hearing someone say it out loud like that makes the color drain from his face, and he cannot refute it fast enough. "Besides," he finishes after a good minute of vehement, half-panicked denials, "I'm a Grey Warden, and that is not a promise that can be foresworn, even if I wanted to be king. Which I don't. In case you didn't pick up on that."

He might be imagining it, but she seems to relax at those words as she nods solemnly to herself. "Good to know."

As they move on toward Redcliff, Alistair finds himself examining her from the corner of his eye, trying to figure out what she is thinking. He wonders if she fears as much as he does the thought of being abandoned to fight the Blight alone. It is hard to imagine she is afraid of anything.


	3. Chapter 3

She will never forget the first time he saves her life.

It seems silly, to recall one singular event as _the_ first time when the reality is that they fight side by side constantly, saving each other in small ways over and over again, from their first battle with a pack of wolves in the Wilds onward. But this is different. This will change things between them. He will no longer simply be, "the shemlen who follows me around," or "the only other Grey Warden in Ferelden," or "the man who complains a lot but has to be tolerated because he's occasionally useful."

Fighting undead frightens her. She will never admit this out loud, and she even tells herself that it is not really _fear_ that claws at her like icy fingers in the pit of her stomach and clouds her mind in a daze of doubt. It is only bad associations…terrible memories of that last day she spent with Tamlen. _Why didn't we leave when we had the chance? Why didn't I make him go? I was such a fool._

The castle is crawling with undead shemlen. Some of them are fresh, too. They still look human, their faces still have expressions, and voices, _words_ still tumble from their lips in between snarls as they lunge and slash at her in mindless fury. Alistair is pale, his breathing ragged as he leads charge after charge, his sword and shield slick with blood and gore, but he does not falter. An idle, distracting thought circles in her mind that he might _recognize_ some of these men and women – _he lived here as a child, did he not?_ – but she firmly tells herself that this is not the time for thinking. About anything.

It is with an acute sense of relief that she bursts into the sunlight of the castle courtyard and sends a desperate, thankful prayer to Mythal. She is sure that the fighting is not over, but just being outside again, away from the overpowering stench of sickness and death and evil, to see the blue sky overhead, it is enough to calm her racing pulse. She spots the knights waiting on the other side of the portcullis, and she sprints for the gate without waiting for the others.

She is halfway across the courtyard when she notices the Revenant.

And suddenly her feet have grown roots and she cannot move or breathe or think about _anything_ aside from the monstrous, wretched _evil_ thundering toward her. It is enormous –_ how can anything be so big?_ She does not hear Alistair and Sten shouting behind her, or Morrigan's muted curses bitten off between spells. Time seems to grind to a stop as the towering creature swings its gaze on her…and _laughs_…and keeps coming closer.

Then everything rushes together in a blur, and Ser Perth is screaming at her to open the gates and an arrow whistles past her face and she forces herself to _move_, because she knows if she does not move she will die. She only manages to take two steps before her chest constricts and the air whooshes from her lungs. Pain explodes as she feels her ribs bend and snap beneath some invisible force, magic coiling like a snake around her chest, and she cannot even draw a breath to scream. Her whole body lifts from the ground and she is pulled in an agonizing jerk, right toward the still laughing Revenant.

Kneeling in the dirt at the monster's feet, she is frozen with fear and pain. Its sword is longer than she is tall, and it hoists the weapon easily over its head, ready to split her in half as she listens to the sound of its mocking rumble in her ears.

_I have failed. Failed the Keeper, failed Tamlen, failed Duncan, failed Alistair…_

A blur of movement collides with the undead beast, sending it stumbling backward. The Revenant roars in fury as Alistair raises his shield to batter at the monster again and again, and he is _goading_ the creature, spitting fury and insults that she has never imagined he knew in the first place. _This is what they teach these "sheltered" Templars? _She collapses in agony, every breath a lesson in pain, but she forces herself to watch the battle, fixated on Alistair's armored form even as Morrigan's spells simmer in the air around her, and Sten is shouting in Qunari somewhere nearby.

When it is done, Alistair stands over her, panting and sweating as blood trickles from his own wounds. His breastplate is dented and there is a large crack in his shield, but he seems only concerned for her as he kneels beside her and demands to know if she is okay. She wants to tell him she is fine, to thank him even though she has never thanked a shem for anything before and she does not really know _what_ to say, but darkness is creeping over her senses and she cannot make her voice obey. He jerks his helm from his head, and his eyes are filled with concern and fear and desperation.

"Just hold on," he commands her. "You're going to be fine."

The last thing she feels before unconsciousness takes her is _trust_. It is a feeling she has not experienced since being separated from her clan, and she wants to scoff at herself for being foolish enough to depend on a shem. But she cannot deny that she feels safe, though the acknowledgement brings as much pain as it does relief.

"Please…don't die…"

Darkness is a welcome retreat.


	4. Chapter 4

It is raining.

Correction – it is _pouring_, a torrential downpour that has not relented for he cannot recall how many hours. He has never been fond of rain, and when a storm hits, he always remembers that it was raining that night in Ostagar…which does not help his mood at all.

She tries to convince them to keep marching despite the rain, and it works for an hour or so, but eventually Morrigan's complaints and his own miserable sighs force her to call a halt for the day. Now they each sit in their own tents, huddled alone in muddy blankets and furs and chewing on cold trail rations. Lighting a fire is hopeless. Alistair almost wishes he had stayed silent and kept them marching. At least he would not be bored as well as cold and wet and tired.

He is finally beginning to remember what being warm feels like, though feeling dry is an impossibility for the present, and he hopes that perhaps he will be able to claim a few precious hours of sleep after all. He hears a tent flap open outside, but he ignores it. Short of the horde itself overrunning their camp, he is not planning on leaving his cocoon of growing warmth anytime soon.

He absolutely does not care one bit that one of his companions is standing out in the rain. He is not at all curious when several moments tick by and he does not hear whomever it is return to their bed. He is not at all concerned that something might be wrong – that something _else_ might be wrong, because when have things not been completely, all-the-time wrong since Ostagar? He is absolutely _not_ going to listen to his paranoia and ruin this moment of not-quite-misery he is enjoying by moving to check on something that is probably nothing at all.

He gives an irritated sigh and shoves the blankets aside, leaning forward to push open his tent flap just a sliver.

It is not yet truly night, though the clouds have darkened the land prematurely, and he can see well enough to make out shapes and some amount of detail. The Dalish stands in front of her own tent in the pouring rain. Her head is tilted backward, her eyes closed, and little rivers of water stream across the angles of her face, down the hollow of her throat, soaking her hair flat to her skull. _It's longer than it looks when it's dry and twisted into braids_, he notices. She holds her arms out from her body, palms up, as if she is making some sort of offering. He wonders if this is some ritual or respect she pays to the Creators she mentions on occasion, and…

_Maker's blood, where are her clothes?!_

She is not exactly _naked_, but she really might as well be considering that she is _sopping wet_, and why is he staring so hard, and it is really not so much less than the leathers she typically wears, and is she _crazy_ to be standing in the pouring rain in her smallclothes, and _wow_ are his eyeballs going dry in spite of the wet weather, and now would be a really good time to look somewhere, _anywhere_ else or pass out or something that does not include leering at the near-naked form of his fellow Grey Warden…

He is dreaming. He _has_ to be dreaming.

Except that he has never dreamed of her in _this way_. If he is completely honest with himself, she scares him a little in some ways. Well, maybe more "intimidates" than "scares." He has never even entertained the idea of her as something that is not fully foreign and grim and a fellow Grey Warden, but rather something soft and feminine and…_wet_.

And that train of thought is _really_ not helping.

About the same time he decides that this is indeed _not_ a dream, he reminds himself that she is blithely standing in a cascade of freezing cold rain. Because he has apparently forgotten this in lieu of the fact that she is half-naked and _wet_…and he is _really_ starting to hate that word. She will get sick if she stands out there much longer, and before he can think about what he is doing, Alistair yanks his cloak around him, hood low to block the rain, and ducks out of his tent.

"Look, I know you Dalish are rumored to be, well, _crazy_, and really, really into nature and all," he says in a rush, his eyes mostly dancing across the tree line to keep from staring at any part of _her_, "but don't you think you're taking it just a bit too far?"

Her eyes are open and peering up at him questioningly, as if he is the madman and she is doing nothing out of the ordinary. "It's raining, in case you hadn't noticed," he offers, tugging his cloak around him more snugly. He is finding it very difficult to focus his thoughts into words because his eyes really, really seem determined to not go where he directs them. He considers wrapping her in his cloak…but then he would be standing in the downpour, getting drenched to the bone, and what good would it do for both of them to get sick? And he really has no idea if she would even accept such a gesture if he attempted it.

"Thank you for pointing that out." He startles as her voice invades his thoughts, and he hazards a glance down into her upturned face. She is wearing the same look he caught just before they arrived in Redcliff, when she told him he was allowed to have secrets. "I would never have figured it out on my own."

She is _teasing_ him, her voice completely serious and deadpan, but the gleam in her eyes is sly. This is definitely a new experience. Never mind the rain and cold and near-naked woman in front of him – it is all pushed to the back of his awareness in the wake of realizing that she might possibly have a sense of humor under her hard exterior.

"Clearly," he jests back at her with a gesture at her bared body.

The almost-smile intensifies just a fraction. "I smelled bad," she offers with an honest shrug. "And there was blood in my hair."

"So…" he crosses his arms over his chest and emulates a stance of superiority, "you're going to trade 'dirty' for 'freezing cold and possibly getting deathly ill' then? Well, that makes perfect sense."

She shrugs again, but her expression seems a bit more relaxed, if no less serious. "I'll be fine. I think I know my body better than you do."

And _that_ comment brings him right back to the reality of "wet, near-naked woman an arm's length away" and he clears his throat and struggles with the urge to stumble back to his tent _right now_. Should he not be making a witty comment right about now? What exactly was he thinking coming out here anyway? Before he can beat a hasty retreat, the elf reaches out and catches the edge of his hood. He does not even have the chance to wonder what she is doing before she flicks the heavy material off of his head.

Andraste's flaming sword, that rain is even colder than he expects! And it is already dripping down the back of his neck and slithering beneath his clothes in a wicked attempt to seek out any warmth on his body and turn it to ice. He shudders and makes a small growl to resist the urge to whimper like a little girl, but he is not making an attempt to pull his hood back up because...

Because she is grinning up at him, reminding him of a self-satisfied cat examining the mouse she has just caught. He cannot recall having ever seen her smile, at least nothing akin to this genuine amusement he sees right now. _She has really nice teeth_, he notes, and if _that_ is not the weirdest thing he has thought this night…

"You smell bad, too," she informs him smugly.

His teeth chatter together and he shivers from the cold but still does not replace his hood. He _really should_ pull up the hood. "And now I get to be cold, wet _and_ smelly. A vast improvement." Her smirk deepens as she stares up at the top of his head. "What?" he demands.

"Your hair," she replies with mischief in her eyes. "It's all messy. You look like a grumpy, drenched rat."

He lets out an indignant, entirely unmanly squawk of distress and finally pulls his hood back up over his offended hair. The Dalish elf in front of him laughs aloud, and he finds himself staring at her again. It is another first, hearing her laugh, and though there is nothing especially musical or magical about her voice, it is the fact that _he_ has coaxed that seemingly-impossible sound from her that makes him feel…what? Excited? Pleased? _Somewhere in between_, he decides, and more importantly, he wants to do it again.

_If it only takes standing in the freezing rain, shivering like a fool to get a laugh from the woman, it should be easy enough to get another_, he tells himself wryly._ Given I survive the attempt.  
_


	5. Chapter 5

"…feed their Mabari the flesh of the vanquished."

She ducks her head to hide a smirk, but keeps her focus on the arrows she is fletching in her lap near the fire. Her hound gives a questioning whine at the human crouched beside him, and she can easily picture the confusion in his big, soft puppy eyes. She never expected to care for the animal as much as she does.

Then again, she never expected to be sent away from her clan and wrapped in events she previously thought of as shemlen problems.

"It's true. Sometimes it would even be," Alistair's voice drops low as he all but purrs, "_human flesh_."

The Mabari makes a startled sound, then gags so violently that he dissolves into a series of body-shaking sneezes. It is very hard for the Dalish to keep a straight face.

"Bah, you're a dog! Like you would know the difference. For all you know, you could already have eaten someone."

She turns her head toward the pair not far from the fire, her expression neutral as Alistair backs away from the unhappy, growling dog. "Oh, believe me," she tells them with a level stare, "he would be able to tell the difference. Human flesh is far sweeter than the flesh of any beast."

And the camp has never before been so deathly silent. Only the occasional pop of the fire breaks the stillness.

She replies Alistair's comical expression of shock with one of bemused detachment and expectation. He cannot seem to decide how he should respond, or how he should feel considering the myriad of emotions flashing across his face. The hound backs down from his irritated stance and cocks his head curiously at her.

She beckons the dog to her and explains simply as she pats him, "It's not cannibalism if we eat them, lethallan. We are not human."

She chances a glance up at Alistair and it is the hardest thing she has ever done to keep from laughing aloud. He has paled, and his mouth is hanging open a little until he realizes she is staring and he snaps it shut with an audible snap. Despite her best efforts at appearing utterly serious, he seems to read something in her eyes and gives a nervous laugh. "I-I…can never tell whether you're being serious or not." He runs a hand through his hair. "Please tell me it's _not_."

She shrugs and turns her eyes back down to the hound who has now crawled half into her lap, begging to be scratched. "It's not as though you need to worry," is her cryptic answer. "I doubt we'll have to resort to such…measures."

"Yes, well," from his flippant hand wave, she realizes that he is going to convince himself that she is joking even if he is not sure of that fact, "if you do feel a craving for human flesh, be a dear and start with Morrigan."

As he moves around the other side of the fire, she follows him with her eyes. "No," she says, and this time she cannot fully keep her grin to herself. "Human women don't taste nearly as good as human men."

Alistair clears his throat sharply and focuses on prodding the fire, but she spots a faint blush on his cheeks. "Good to know," he mutters, and she laughs lightly before returning to her neglected arrows.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **You people who review are so nice, and I'm such an ass because I'm the worst at replying to reviews. They do make me feel loved though, and I appreciate them. ^_^ Pretty much all of these drabbles are based on things I thought or experienced (like that bastard Revenant yanking me around when I was trying to open that stupid gate *shakes fist*) during one of my half-dozen runs through the game. This particular one is a nod at something I feel was really missing from the game in general. Why is there no mention of the fact that Alistair's _duty _is to the Wardens now, and _not _to some bloodline that never acknowledged him in the first place? There's not even an option to express that argument. That annoys me.

* * *

She does not like Arl Eamon.

Alistair watches their interactions closely, wondering why this realization does not bother him as much as it probably should. Maybe it is because she has never really liked _anyone_ they meet, barring most of the members of their little family of dysfunction. In fact, there is something perversely entertaining about the whole situation. After so much effort on her part to save not only the Arl's life, but the lives of his family and his subjects, she is slowly discovering that she cannot stand the man. Alistair is thrilled that the Arl has survived, and with his family intact no less, so it should not be funny to him to see this tension between them. But it is. Just a little.

Her body language screams distaste, the tightness around her eyes and mouth, the way her hand occasionally brushes the grip of the skinning knife at her belt as if it brings her some sort of comfort. He is mildly surprised at himself for recognizing these little signs in her, but after the last few months, it seems only natural.

"You intend to put Alistair forward as king?"

Her harsh words send him slamming back to the present and he stares stupidly from her to Eamon and back again as he tries to figure out what is going on. _Why is someone saying "Alistair" and "king" in the same sentence?_ Eamon says something about the Theirin bloodline and uniting the nobles and all Alistair hears is, "Look, we're making all your decisions for you again, and you have no choice in the matter! _Again!_ Isn't that lovely?"

"Don't _I_ have any say in this?" he interrupts with more force than he intends, instantly evoking a disapproving frown from the Arl.

"You have a responsibility, Alistair," Eamon admonishes firmly. "You have a duty to the people of Ferelden. It is not something you can simply ignore."

"Duty?" The Dalish elf is positively bristling and all the pent up irritation he has watched build in her over the last several minutes is written across her face in a furious sneer. "You dare speak to a Grey Warden of duty? You know nothing of what you speak, shem. Alistair has done nothing but serve the people of this country, since Ostagar onward."

Alistair wants to stare at her, torn between gratitude, awe and a little reproach for her losing her temper, but Arl Eamon is not backing down and answers with equal intensity. "He serves his duty as a Warden, yes, but he must serve his country more directly as well. More Grey Wardens will come – but Maric has only _one_ surviving son. The Theirin bloodline must survive, or there will be civil war, again and again. This is…"

"A man cannot serve two masters!" she snarls, and Alistair takes a reflexive step closer to her when he notices her white-knuckled grip on her knife. He tells himself that she is not really a danger to anyone, but he is not able to fully convince himself of that. "The duty of a Grey Warden cannot be foresworn. You are selfish to place this burden on him because of your own fear."

Hoping to calm her, Alistair reaches out to close his fingers around the elf's wrist, her lean muscles coiled and solid beneath his touch. She jerks her arm away from him, her defiant stare never leaving the Arl's face. "I have no time for this," she hisses and finally glances up at Alistair. He is not exactly sure what she sees in his expression, but she relaxes a notch and gives a sharp sigh. "We have an army to build, and a Blight that will not wait for shemlen politics."

Without another word, she spins on her heel and strides from the hall, leaving Alistair to stare after her and make a hasty, half-sincere apology to the Arl on her behalf. Eamon waves off his words with a chuckle.

"Clearly you have your hands full, my boy," the aging man says kindly. "There will be time to discuss the details another day. Go – raise your army."

Alistair manages a stiff farewell around the scowl that tries to take over his face. _The _details_, he says,_ Alistair thinks bitterly._ As if me becoming king is already written in stone and all I have to do is put on a nicer hat and have someone tie my laces properly and we'll be all set for a picture perfect future…_


	7. Chapter 7

He does not like Zevran.

Which hardly comes as a surprise to her, considering that she does not much care for the assassin either. Then again, during her time as a Warden she has often been accused of being unfriendly, so perhaps it _should_ surprise her that Alistair is glaring daggers at the blonde elf every time the Antivan is in sight. Especially considering that Alistair seems to like just about everyone they meet, a fact that irritates her to no end.

She still has no idea why she agreed to the elf's bizarre request to join them. Some part of her feels immense amounts of pleasure at the idea of Loghain's own hired assassin turning on him and helping bring him to ruin. Assuming the assassin is actually loyal to her and is not simply trying to gain her trust before he slits her throat, Alistair points out more than once. But she is no fool, and while aware of the potential threat, she still stands by her decision.

Even when the daft elf says the most lewd, absurd things to her that often end with her brandishing a weapon in his face and Alistair practically singing, "I told you so!" in the background.

And perhaps a small, hidden part of her longs for the companionship of others of her kind. It has been so very long since she communicated in the ancient language, laughed at simple jokes that would make her current companions look at her like she is crazy, or felt the rush of joy from a successful hunt with a clanmate. She knows that she will have to track down a Dalish clan before the Blight hits, but she keeps putting it off. She does not tell anyone that it is because she knows it will not be _her_ clan that they find, and this leaves a dull, hollow ache in the center of her chest.

If this was what she sought when she spared Zevran's life, however, this hope that he would ease that lonely part of her spirit, then she has made a dire misjudgment indeed. For the first time in her life, she truly understands the term "flat-ears," the contemptuous name her fellow Dalish give to elves who are no better than the humans they choose to surround themselves with.

Zevran is fully and unashamedly enraptured of the human world, despite a few comments to the contrary. At first, it baffles her to see an elf behave as he does. Her feelings quickly turn to disgust, then slowly calm to indifference until he nothing more than a fixture in their group, part of her new definition of "normal." He continues to do what he does best, and she is content to fend him off, at knifepoint if necessary. It is no stranger than half of the other dealings going on between their growing group of oddities.

Alistair, however, does not seem to adjust to the elf's presence. In fact, he seems less at ease the longer the Antivan is around. He is snappish sometimes, more often with Zevran himself, but sometimes with her as well. She knows the assassin is the cause, so why does he take it out on her? She watches him when he does not know she is there, hoping to find some motivation behind his distaste…aside from the assassination attempt, of course. At some point, she realizes that she has seen this sort of behavior before, and the memory startles her, though it is not as painful as she expects it to be.

She is in her fifteenth year, not yet a hunter, but she cannot contain her eagerness to prove her worth to the clan. One of the newest young hunters, a man with soft brown eyes and long, dark hair spends some time with her, giving her advice and encouragement. He is polite and kind, and she feels joyful and confident after speaking with him.

Talmen, however, is furious. For days, he refuses to speak to her, and when he finally does, he shouts an angry demand to know if he is not good enough for her. All in front of half the clan, the Keeper, the young hunter…just thinking back about the whole incident makes her feel embarrassed and hurt all over again.

But Ashalle had laughed when she found out, and explained that Tamlen was jealous. Somehow, her time spent with the hunter had made Tamlen feel less sure of himself. It made little sense to the young Dalish girl at the time, and even years later, the whole idea sounds like foolish nonsense to her. Surely it cannot be so hard for a man to be forthright? What purpose is served by being evasive and cruel and cold, especially when what he truly wants is the exact opposite?

Alistair is acting nearly as childish now as Tamlen did then, and that confuses her. Not because she expects more maturity from him, but because she does not understand _why_ he would feel such a thing. Zevran is tolerated, and little more. She has not so much as touched the assassin, or let him touch her, and she has no intention of seeing that change.

_Perhaps I'm thinking about this too hard_, she wonders as she watches her fellow Grey Warden yawn and trudge off to his tent. _Perhaps he is merely being protective._

And that thought brings with it a whole new mess of questions, ones she is not at all willing to let distract her for the time being.


	8. Chapter 8

The knife on her belt makes her feel safe. He realizes this early on in their travels, so after a time he becomes used to her unconscious need to touch the weapon when she feels nervous or upset. She has never before actually drawn the weapon on anyone who is not an enemy, but now she does so on his sister no less, and he has no idea what that means. It is not difficult to guess that it will not be pleasant.

"I'm shocked no one has cut that tongue from your mouth yet," she snarls with a threatening wave of the sharp weapon and a quick step forward. Goldanna stumbles back from them, looking as though she will scream for the guards at any moment, but Alistair grips his companion's arm and eases the weapon down.

"Come on," he urges with a dark frown at the only family he has left. "There's nothing here for me."

The Dalish looks fully prepared to carry out with her threat, but after she glances up at his expression, she silently sheathes the knife and follows him from the house. The feeling of suffocation that is wrapped around his chest eases a little once they are out in the bright sunlight.

"Well," he says, awkwardly running his hand through his hair a few times, "that was…not what I was expecting. To say the least."

The elf says nothing, and when he looks over at her, she looks pained and angry. Her lips are pressed into a thin line and her hand still lingers on her knife. She is nervous enough being in the city, but now she is downright agitated. It is hard to imagine, but she actually seems more upset than he feels.

"Are we done here?" she suddenly bites off with a guarded glance at him that quickly dances away.

"Uh…yes." Her harsh tone hurts him, but he calls himself a fool for that. What did he expect? For her to hug him? To feed him false assurances? That is not who she is. "I…"

She mutters something he cannot quite hear, though he suspects it is in a language he would not understand anyway, then she is off and striding away from him, back toward the city gates. With a brooding sigh, he follows.

It is not until they are back at camp, just before first watch when everyone is drifting off to their bedrolls, that she says another word to him. Silently she moves around the fire and folds her legs to sit close beside him. She stares into the fire for several minutes, apparently oblivious to his uncertain sidelong glances.

"I feel I owe you an apology," she says softly.

As startled as he feels to hear her say this, Alistair cannot help but make it into a jest. "For what? Waving a knife in my sister's face? Don't worry – I don't blame you in the least."

She does not smile, but she does seem to relax a little. Her eyes still on the fire, she says, "Not for that. I have not been a very good…" she frowns, "friend…to you. At least not today. The Keeper would say I am being selfish."

"I don't understand," he answers with a confused shake of his head.

"I have been away from my clan for nearly a year now," she begins to explain with some difficulty. The elf pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. "I have learned much of what it means to live in a human world, but sometimes…" she finally looks at him, and her eyes are cautious but sad, "sometimes your world's cruelty burns me, Alistair."

The sincerity in her stare is a little unnerving, and he hears himself lamely reply, "It's not exactly _my_ world, you know…"

She shrugs and turns her face back to the fire. "My parents died long ago." Alistair's full attention is on her now, hearing her speak of her past when she has never said more than two words about it. "My father was killed by shemlen bandits before I was born, and my mother died of grief when I was just a babe."

She says it so matter-of-factly, but Alistair's chest aches at hearing this. "I am so sorry."

A small frown touches her face, but other than that, she does not acknowledge his statement. "I have no blood kin, Alistair, but I did not grow up without family. My clan raised me. I was fed, I was clothed, I was trained to hunt and fight and protect, I had friends and love. Such is the way of the Dalish – we do not leave our own behind. We do not cast them aside."

He has never heard her speak so many words at once, and Alistair is at a loss for a witty retort.

"You are the perfect example of why your people baffle me." She turns to look at him and it takes Alistair a moment to recognize the look on her face because he cannot recall ever seeing it there before. Compassion. Sympathy. For him. "Your whole life, your 'family' has done nothing but cast you aside. Perhaps you do not see it that way, but…your father, the Arl, the Chantry, your sister…how can shemlen treat each other this way? Doesn't it _hurt_?"

And she is genuinely asking him this question, but Alistair is so blindsided by it all that he can only stare for a long moment before he draws in a shaky breath. "I…suppose," his voice cracks and he looks away from her and runs a hand through his hair. "I suppose we've just had lots of centuries of practice at it."

It is a cheap answer, and they both know it, but she does not press him for a better one. "This life can be a lonely walk, no matter where we come from," she comments quietly. Her eyes leave the man's face and drift across the camp, pausing on each person preparing for either rest or for watch. No one acknowledges her glance, aside from the Mabari, who raises his head curiously when her gaze swings his direction.

She smiles and looks back at Alistair. "But it doesn't have to be, even for Grey Wardens. We have a clan," she explains with a subtle gesture toward the others. "We have a family."

Her fingertips brush the back of his hand, and she stands quickly to make for her tent. Alistair stares after her, his mouth hanging open a little and the skin on his hand tingling where she had touched him. Of all the words she spoke, the word "we" means the most to him.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** I am still chipping away at this story. This particular part was not easy for me to write because I'm horribly claustrophobic and it just made my skin crawl. Thank you very much for the reviews. :)

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The Deeproads are her worst nightmares, amplified a thousand times over. There is a darkness there that is not simply from lack of light – it feels _solid_ to her, pressing down upon her body, dampening her spirit. She wants nothing more than to give in to the shadow of panic in the back of her mind and claw her way back to the surface, back to _life_ because this…this _blackness_, must surely be death.

The constant presence of darkspawn does not help matters. Alistair has warned her that the connection formed by the taint can be stronger in the Grey Wardens who join during a Blight. She cannot help but think this must be true, because he does not seem to feel anything close to the level of unease she is experiencing, and she cannot believe that he is truly so skilled at hiding such feelings.

They have only been traveling the dark, twisting caves for less than a half a day at most, but it feels like a lifetime to her. She refuses to rest, even when Wynne gives her that _look_ that reminds her so strangely of the Keeper, afraid that if she stops, she will have to think. And if she thinks, she will remember where she is and it will be too much and she will lose what little is left of her sanity.

But there comes a point when they must rest, if only to tend their wounds and swallow a few bites of food. Oghren takes a devastating blow to the head that seems to sober the dwarf somewhat, making him more irritable and talkative, both during battle and otherwise. These are not improvements to his otherwise bizarre personality, so the Dalish drops her pack in wordless agreement to Wynne's most recent withering stare.

"Never thought I'd feel uneasy with all this stone over my head," Oghren grumbles as the mage tends his wounds and repeatedly tells him to hold still. The Dalish looks up at the looming ceiling overhead and fights down the urge to lunge to her feet and _run_. She stares down at her lap and bites off a chunk of hard bread, grateful that it is bland and tasteless. "The Deeproads feel different this far down."

Alistair's face is drawn into a tight frown as he restlessly paces the perimeter of the small area, though he knows as well as his fellow Grey Warden that there are no immediate threats. Not from darkspawn anyway. "It's the taint," he mutters, his voice for once completely free of any jest. She wonders suddenly if he _is_ as panicked as she feels, but that thought is not at all comforting and makes the bread stick in her throat. "It's thick here…like I've never felt before."

"Bah," the dwarf scoffs even as Wynne scolds him again, "there's _always_ darkspawn here, boy. You humans don't give one sodding nug shit what goes on down here, so long as it doesn't come up and slap you on the backside."

The Dalish takes a desperate drag of lukewarm water from her waterskin, but nausea rolls from the pit of her stomach up to the back of her throat. She bites back a groan and squeezes her eyes shut, begging her body to ignore her mind. Shadows dance in the corners of her vision when she dare to look around again, taunting her, goading her to greater heights of paranoia.

"Yes, well the Archdemon isn't picky," Alistair bites off with a harsh edge that she is not used to hearing from him. "When he's done gleefully consuming the surface lands, I'm sure he'll find time to make a little detour back to Orzammar."

She hears the dwarf grunt something in reply, but she cannot deny her body anymore. Lunging from the stone she has been using as a seat, the elf stumbles blindly away from the voices of her companions. Clutching a stalagmite with one trembling arm, she doubles over and heaves, emptying her roiling stomach onto the solid ground beneath her feet.

Tears burn her eyes, her body frustratingly weak and unsteady as all of her pent up nerves punish her for not obeying her instincts to flee. Her throat is raw as a scream tears out of her, distorted and muffled by the foul bile, its taste so horrid that she heaves all the harder. She feels her knees meet the stone floor, and some hysterical part of her mind congratulates her for not collapsing into her own vomit.

"Easy." Alistair's voice is so calm and quiet that she does not even feel startled at his sudden appearance beside her. She dares not look at him, her breath hissing between clenched teeth as she struggles to bring her body back into control. It is an impossible battle because her mind is the one in rebellion – her body is merely following orders.

The human hesitates for a moment, then crouches beside her, his armor creaking in protest. A large hand gently touches the center of her back, then moves up and down her spine in slow, soothing brushes. She feels her hammering heart begin to slow, her ragged breathing becoming less desperate as she accepts the slight comfort he offers her.

"It's this place, isn't it?" She starts to tense up when he speaks again, but she can tell without looking at him that Alistair is staring off into the darkness beyond them. "I didn't expect it to feel like this…but I should have, shouldn't I?" He turns to look her in the eye and she glances over at him only to see his expression fall. "Maker, I'm sorry. You're used to trees and open skies, and I didn't even think about what this would do to you."

_No, you didn't_, she wants to snarl at him, but she knows it would be fear talking and she will not let the fear win her over again and again. She does not usually resent him for silently placing her into the position of leadership over their ever-expanding group of followers, but right then, she is close to it. He should be capable of leading them himself for such a short detour, but he is unwilling and she will not ignore her own duty as a Warden even if sometimes he seems blissfully content to ignore his own.

"Here." His voice startles her from her brooding thoughts, as does the shifting pressure of his hand that is still resting lightly against her back. He gently tucks a few braids back from her face and offers her his waterskin, his expression sincere and concerned, but there is a steely determination to it. There is something in his eyes that she only sees on rare occasion, something that reassures her that they _will_ get this done, nothing can stop them for long.

And just like that, with his hand tangled in her hair and resting lightly on her shoulder, that seed of resentment that tried to take root is utterly destroyed. Instead it is replaced with gratitude and the relief of knowing that, though she may be leading, he is always there, right behind her, ready to shoulder his share of the burden when she needs him. She is not alone, she has never been alone since the day they first met, and suddenly the darkness of the Deeproads is not nearly as unbearable as it was moments before.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Thanks for reviews. :)

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Alistair knows he does not always come up with the brightest plans. It is precisely why he is happy to let someone else lead the way. "Seems like a good enough idea," so quickly – and so often – turns to, "Maker, what was I thinking?" And it is not always things so obvious as realizing it is a _bad_ idea to lock himself into a prison cell in the Arl's dungeon, or that screaming bloody murder in the dead of night just to see panicked Priests and Templars come running is really not going to end well for him. Sometimes it is something as innocent as asking to accompany a companion on a hunt for food.

She gives him a strange look when he makes the request, as if she is waiting for him to crack a joke and allow her to continue on about her business. He has never asked to join her before, and she must think there is something amiss for him to change up their routine. But he is sincere, and a little curious about this seemingly private part of her life, though he does not say that out loud, and after a moment of reluctance, she concedes with a nod.

"Take off your armor," she instructs him as she retrieves a bow and quiver for him. "Find some old leathers to wear and meet me at the edge of camp. You won't need your sword and shield either."

He feels a little insulted that she is talking to him like a child – he _has_ been on a hunt before, after all – but he manages to swallow any clever retort and simply does as she asks. She nods in silent approval when he finally joins her, passes him his bow and arrows and makes a small hand signal at the Mabari sitting quietly beside her. With a faint _woof_, the hound hops to his feet and trots into the woods, the elf and human trailing behind him.

She moves so quietly that Alistair finds himself staring. No, it is not really that she is _quiet_, exactly…it is more like a sense of belonging or self-assurance. She walks calmly, one foot directly in front of the other in smooth, purposeful movements, never stumbling, never indecisive, like an animal winding its way through the shade of the trees. He knows she would not appreciate the comparison, but he feels so awkward and clumsy and _big and loud_ walking beside her. How can they be wearing the same make of boots, and yet her footsteps sound like the faint rustling of leaves and his own sound like the tromping of a horse?

"Do the Dalish hunt with animals?" Alistair hears himself ask with a gesture at the dog ahead of them after several minutes of silent walking. The elf sends him a look that reminds him of an apparent universal truth of hunting – _be quiet_. Still, he is curious, and he has never been one to enjoy silence – never mind that he is nervous she will catch him staring and interpret it in some uncomfortable way – so he puts on his best innocent expression and waits for her to answer.

"No," she murmurs in reply, her eyes following the movements of the hound. Her voice is pitched so low that Alistair has to move a few steps closer to her to listen, their arms nearly touching as they swing. "We have nothing like a Mabari, if that is what you mean. The hunters of each clan are usually familiar with the lands we choose to call home. They know where the best grasses can be found, where the safest waterhole is, the movements of the beasts in the area."

Nodding his understanding, Alistair whispers, "And that's an advantage you don't have here?"

"This forest is alien to me, and the hound gives me back an advantage over my quarry," she agrees, her eyes sad for just a moment. "This place is as foreign as your human cities, really. Though," she gives him the mildly amused look that he has come to accept is her version of a smile, "this place is decidedly more pleasant."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Oh, come on. I'm not overly fond of them myself, but cities have their uses."

When he glances over at her, her expression has hardened, her eyes cold and unyielding. "Yes. They are quite useful at subjugating my flat-eared cousins and allowing shemlen to exercise their insatiable greed and cruelty upon each other in a more 'civilized' setting."

Alistair almost stumbles over his own feet at the sudden change in her tone, and his words start coming from his mouth before he even fully thinks about how she might respond. "You're never going to let it go, are you? I mean, the Dalish in general. What was done to your people was horrible, yes, and the injustices continue on today, but how many centuries will you waste on bitterness and resentment and…why are you grinning?"

The elf is indeed giving him a sidelong smirk. "I just don't know how you're going to survive meeting a Dalish clan," she observes with clear amusement. "If you think _I_ am bitter, just you wait…and I would not say such things to them, either. Not if you want to keep your hide free of arrows."

"Yes, that's very reassuring," he mutters, but gives her a curious look. "You don't seem all that offended." And, oddly enough, he realizes that he did not feel nervous about expressing his opinion though he knew they would disagree. He is not sure when it happened, but at some point she has become something…less intimidating than before.

"I've come to accept that your mouth cannot help but say the thoughts that spring into your mind," she replies with another not-smile, but she chuckles under her breath and shakes her head as soon as the words are said. "That's a frightening thought."

"Which part?" Alistair asks, well aware that he is grinning like a fool though he cannot bring himself to care because he might actually get her to _laugh_ again if he plays his cards right. "That I cannot control my tongue, or that you know me so well?"

This time the smile is wider, showing her teeth, and it is like a small victory for Alistair, though it is short lived. The hound steals his thunder with a low, rumbling growl, the Mabari's whole body tense as he peers through the thick foliage ahead of them. The Dalish is instantly back into her role as Hunter, and Alistair freezes as she makes a sharp hand gesture toward him.

She once more reminds him of something more animal than elf as she slinks forward, her movements barely a whisper of sound. She crouches beside the ready hound, motionless for a long moment, before she silently gestures Alistair to her side. He has never worked so hard at anything in his life as he does at being completely quiet right now, and he is absurdly proud of himself as he creeps to her side and mirrors her crouch.

Beyond the dense bushes before them spreads a wide glade, most of the grasses browned by cool weather. On the far side, Alistair spots a pair of deer grazing on a few patches of green. If the hunters were not downwind, the deer would have easily sensed them and fled by now, but their prey seems blissfully unaware of the danger they are in.

Alistair catches the elf's eye with a questioning look and lifts first one finger, then two fingers _– Just one of them, or both of them?_ The Dalish ponders this for a moment before shaking her head faintly and holding up one finger. He understands. This forest is thick with wildlife, so they will not risk going without fresh game any time soon even if it takes them longer than expected to track down the Dalish clan they hope to find in the area.

He waits expectantly for several heartbeats, his attention focused on the calm movements of the deer as they graze, before he realizes that she is looking at _him_ expectantly. Alistair can only blink stupidly and point to himself in disbelief as she makes a slightly impatient gesture at the bow in his hand. Is she crazy? He is not exactly a _bad_ shot, but the woman can probably take down both deer, blindfolded, without either animal knowing she is there in the first place. But even the dog is looking at him now, and Alistair is unwilling to risk the wrath of both of them – not to mention that it was his idea to tag along in the first place – so he obediently notches an arrow and raises the bow.

The elf makes a tiny sound of disapproval and shifts her position. Alistair is acutely aware of her body crouching directly behind him, her arms curling around his shoulders, her hands putting pressure on his forearms to change the way he holds the bow as she leans her much smaller frame over his back.

"Relax. Breathe. Keep your eyes_ open_." Her breath tickles his ear, sending an odd shiver across his skin, and he has to fight back the urge to wriggle away or giggle like an idiot. But the way she is pressing his arms, the authority in her tone as she instructs him in a voice that barely reaches a whisper, reminds him strangely of long days spent in training yards. Of course, those days had been a lot of yelling and barked orders and big, sweaty men in skirted armor, and definitely _no_ scantily-armored elves draped over his body, but the discipline is easy enough to fall back on. So, instead of focusing on how warm her skin is despite the crisp evening air, he forces himself to pay attention to her words.

"The bow is not a weapon, not a tool. It is an extension of you, an extension of your will. Do not _hope_ that the arrow will find its mark – _tell_ the arrow to fly true. Tell it where to go. The command is yours to give." As she speaks, her hands softly guide his arms to a slightly different position than he had originally taken, and he tries to imagine the bow as a part of him, rather than an object. It is a strange concept, but he is hardly going to argue with her, and after a long moment, he thinks he just might be starting to understand what she means.

"Now choose your mark." Alistair pulls more tension on the bowstring and aims for the deer with an exposed flank, waiting for the animal to turn at a better angle. He can hear his own heartbeat, slow and steady, thumping in his own ears. "Go for her heart." A slow, even breath drawn in…released…

"Now."

The arrow sings through the air and strikes the deer's side just behind her foreleg. The animal takes a stumbling bound as her companion springs away in flight, but she is dead before she hits the ground. Alistiar almost cries out in surprise as the Mabari beside him gives a loud, triumphant bark and races toward the fallen animal.

His fellow Grey Warden trots after the hound, not speaking a word, and Alistair tries not to feel disappointed that she does not comment on his shot as he trails after them. When he reaches the dead doe, the Dalish is whispering foreign words over the body as she slits the animal's throat cleanly, allowing the blood to drain into the earth.

Alistair crouches nearby and waits, and when his companion finishes speaking, he has to ask what the words mean.

"I thanked her for giving her life for ours," she explains simply as she prepares to skin and butcher the animal before predators catch the scent of fresh blood. "And I told her to thank the Creators for placing her in our path so that we may live to see another day."

Alistair cannot help but feel humbled by her words, though he is not exactly sure why. All he knows is that no one he has ever met would take the time to give such thanks, and yet this is clearly something she does after each hunt. He wonders if it is a Dalish thing or if it is personal to her, but he does not ask her.

Lost in thought, it takes him a moment to realize she is watching him. When he catches her eye, she tells him sincerely, "That was a clean kill. You are welcome to hunt with me anytime you wish, Alistair."

Though he knows it is foolish, Alistair cannot stop the blush that blooms across his cheeks as he grins gratefully at her. "I'd like that."

The feeling of foolishness fades away when she smiles back at him.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** I just love this chapter. :3 Thank you to those who have reviewed. I appreciate your feedback.

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Paradise is raspberries.

A low murmur of delight purrs up from low in her chest as she takes the plump berry between her teeth and slowly bites down. Her tongue drowns in the tangy juice, her eyes rolling back in her head in pure bliss as she savors the taste for as long as possible. Idly, she nibbles a few seeds between her front teeth as she considers the next perfect specimen pinched between her thumb and forefinger.

She is not far from camp – she intentionally called for a rest when she happened to spot the wayward bush of berries tucked away amid the underbrush – but it is far enough away that she can pretend it does not exist. She can almost imagine she is back with her clan, having crept away from her duties to steal a moment of paradise before answering the call of responsibility again. She can almost hear Tamlen's laughing voice in her ears, taunting her for her wild love affair with the wondrous red treat…but that thought is bittersweet, and even though it is not so hard to think of him anymore, she does not want to spoil the moment. Thinking can wait a while. Right now is paradise.

She feels the years slide away as she devours that next tempting morsel as well, the fear and desperation and sadness of the last year washing away to the back of her mind. She is young again, carefree, reckless, irresponsible, rebellious – all of the things she does not have the luxury of spoiling herself with anymore. There is no bitterness in these thoughts, though, not anymore. She has accepted her place, even if she is more than ready to steal a moment of reprieve from a wild raspberry bush. She is only mortal after all, and there are some temptations even she can never resist. Like popping another berry into her mouth with a hum of adoration and stretching her lithe legs out on the carpet of soft moss at the base of the tree behind her back.

Unfortunately, paradise expires before she is ready to let it go. She hears the pair of them tromping her direction long before they reach her, one letting out sharp, yipping barks that grow closer and closer, the other's armor grinding and creaking. She is torn between the rigid training of dignity and poise that demands she stand and make herself presentable before her companions arrive, and the lusty call of selfishness that insists she revel in this stolen moment for as long as she is able. The latter wins out when she spots another handful of sweet deliciousness nestled deep in the brambly bush.

"…don't have a clue where you're going, do you?" She is not at all surprised that it is Alistair out wandering the woods searching for her. She is even less surprised that he is chattering blithely away at her Mabari. "I should know better than to trust _your_ nose. We're looking for _your master_. You're probably just leading us to chase squirrels or roll in bear poo or some such! Don't think I've forgotten about that, while we're on the subject." They are close enough that she spots a glint of metal through the trees. She smirks to herself as she easily envisions the look on his face as he sighs. "And here I am, following you about…talking to a dog…while he ignores me…"

The hound barks in triumph and bounds through the trees toward the Dalish as he catches sight of her, his tongue lolling out of his massive jaws. She smiles in greeting, but Alistair is right behind the dog, still muttering to himself. As soon as he spots the elf, he stops and blinks in surprise a few times.

"And…you're just sitting here." He looks a little astounded, but she is too busy wriggling her arm past sharp thorns, determined to reach those little tormentors hiding in the deepest thicket of the bush. "While we're all worried about you and traipsing through the woods, you're sitting in the grass-"

"Moss," she corrects without looking up from her task.

"-as casual as can be…" He finally notices the berries nestled in her palm, and his mouth drops open in surprise. "Eating _raspberries_? You…you _knew_ those were here! That's why you wanted to make camp early!" He lets out a disbelieving laugh and shakes his head.

The elf shares a glance with her canine companion, but the hound only lets out an unhelpful sigh and flops down beside her on the moss, content to leave the conversation to them. "I have no idea what you mean," she tells the human with an arched eyebrow. She pops another berry into her mouth, and mumbles, "It's pure coincidence."

Alistair scoffs, but he is grinning at her. "We're all worried about you, and here you sit, as pleased as can be."

"I can take care of myself," she reminds him, but there is no venom in her tone. No, she is far too involved in savoring another berry, her eyes falling closed as she lets the half-devoured morsel rest on her tingling tongue for a few heartbeats. It is impossible to stop the small sound of pleasure from rumbling in her throat.

She can feel Alistair watching her with great interest. After a moment, he clears his throat sharply and says, just a bit too quickly to be casual, "You're not even going to share, are you?"

She opens her eyes a sliver to study him through narrowed lids. He crosses his armored arms over his chest with a look of mock disapproval, but his eyes sparkle with amusement – and something else she does not quite recognize – over the whole situation. She is about to tell him that no, she is absolutely _not_ going to share her treasures with anyone, but she does feel a little bad about hoarding all of the treats to herself. Probably only because Alistair has caught her...and she is starting to feel a little ridiculous.

She takes the bigger of the two remaining berries in her palm and places it in her own mouth, then leans forward and holds up the other toward Alistair, the ripe, red berry pinched between her thumb and forefinger. Alistair blinks in surprise, obviously not expecting this response, but the surprise is quickly replaced by mischief. Grinning, he approaches and instead of taking the berry with his hand, he bends at the waist as much as his armor will allow and captures the offered treat – and her fingers – with his mouth.

The Dalish is so surprised by his boldness that her jaw goes slack, her eyebrows shooting up toward her hairline. The outside of his lips are rough and chapped thanks to their chosen lifestyle, but the soft warmth of the inside of his lips wraps around her sensitive fingertips and makes the tiny hairs on her arm prickle strangely. His tongue flickers against the pad of her thumb as he steals the berry from her grasp. His sparkling brown eyes dart up to catch her stare, amusement dancing across his handsome features as he takes in her reaction. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the moment is gone, leaving a very startled elf with an arm suspended in midair as she stares at her human companion.

Alistair, for his part, is now blushing an impossible shade of crimson as he backs away a few paces, seeming only now to realize that he may have done something wrong. The Dalish quickly drops her hand into her lap and turns her attention back to the raspberry bush with an almost desperate need to find a distraction from the way Alistair is watching her. It confuses her.

She feels mildly victorious when she does in fact find three more berries, though the feeling of paradise has been evaporated in Alistair's presence. She even feels a little resentful that she is not able to drag this time out longer because he just had to show up with his _smirk_ and his confusing actions. Feeling a grin tugging at the corners of her lips, she pops two of the berries into her mouth, and challengingly offers Alistair the last one in the same manner as before.

The human looks surprised, but after a hesitation, he steps forward to take the offering the same way as before. This time his eyes are on hers as he leans in, making the confusion swell and twist in her gut, but just before his mouth can close around her fingers, she moves her hand and squishes the berry against his chin.

Alistair lets out a squawk of protest and hops back a step, trying to keep the juice from dribbling onto his breastplate. The elf chuckles at the sight, contentedly licking the juice from her fingers before standing and dusting off her backside. Alistair gives her a hurt, reproachful look, but the effect is utterly ruined by the red stain still dripping from his chin.

"Never trust a Dalish," she warns, but she is almost choking on the laugh that wants to escape her throat.

"Lesson learned," Alistair snorts, but he is fighting back a grin of his own. With a disgusted sound, he wipes at his chin with a gloved hand, complaining under his breath, "I don't even _like_ raspberries…" He spots the look she is giving him, like he has suddenly turned into a broodmother, and explains, "It's just all those _seeds_. Bleh."

She gives him a withering stare and retrieves her bow from the ground before turning back in the direction of camp. "You are a waste of paradise, Alistair."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** Thank you for the lovely reviews.

* * *

She is beautiful.

Alistair has no idea how he has never realized this before. It seems so painfully obvious, watching her smile at her fellow Dalish elves while they chat easily in their ancient language. He wants to blame the light from the fire, or the wine, or the near-euphoric sense of relief that pervades the Dalish camp, but Alistair knows these excuses will expire soon enough. Then what will he blame when she catches him staring? Probably something stupid and bumbling and awkward and…he really does not want to think about that right now.

For a while, he is not even sure why he cannot take his eyes from her. There are other, more physically attractive women in Ferelden, some even right within this very camp. He knows that even someone as distasteful to him as Isolde draws stares from most men long before the slight elf with her twisting tattoos and sharply pointed ears peeking through her braided hair. But it slowly dawns on him that it is not her appearance that makes him unable to keep his thoughts off of her. Not that she is lacking in looks, especially in that dress she is wearing…how can it be that she is more appealing to him with so much of her skin covered than she is in her revealing leathers? It is a mystery, but not one that he is likely to complain about. But still, the things that draw him to her, they are something deeper than flesh…something that means more.

Every now and then, he forces himself to look away from her for a while, to study the swirling contents of his cup, to listen to whatever tale the clan storyteller is weaving, to watch the few dancers and musicians performing nearby. It is a muted celebration. Many of the elves are far from recovered from their curse, and the sudden loss of their beloved Keeper has dampened their joy. But no matter how he tries, and even after catching a knowing smirk from Zevran that makes him want to punch the Crow in his smug face, Alistair cannot stop himself from searching the crowd for his Dalish elf every few moments.

And when did she become _his_ elf? He realizes, with a strange lurch in the pit of his stomach, that this is not the first time he has thought of her that way, though it is the first time he actually realizes he is doing it. It is strange because possessiveness does not feel the way he expects it to. Should it not feel overbearing or demanding or territorial or jealous of every moment that she is not by his side? That is how he thought such things would be, but it is not like that at all. For the most part, he is simply grateful that she is a part of his life…such as it is.

She is strong and proud. Whether bleeding to death at the mercy of a Revenant or emptying her stomach in the depths of the Deeproads, he knows she would fight until her last breath if she had to. She battles the darkspawn with a ferocity that used to worry him. He quickly felt justified in calling her bloodthirsty all those long months ago – she _screams_ in battle, teeth bared, sometimes even tormenting the creatures with non-lethal strikes before putting them out of their misery minutes later. But he understands it now, the hatred that drives her, though he is not really sure when he figured her out, and he is endlessly glad that she is on his side in this war. She makes for a terrifying enemy.

He discovers a new depth to her strength that day, there in the heart of the Brecilian Forest. Alistair will never forget the shock and betrayal on the elf's face as she learns the truth of the werewolf curse. Though he knows the event burns her even now, and maybe it always will, he has never been more proud to stand by her side than when she refuses to bow to Zathrian's will. The Dalish elf who has been spitting insults at every human she meets since the first day he met her willingly takes up a human cause against her own people because it is the right thing to do. She is _ashamed _of the ancient elf, and she tells him so, with pain and fury in her voice. Alistair is still more than a little taken aback by it all.

She stands over the Keeper's body for a long moment after he finally breaks the curse. Alistair can read nothing in her expression, her eyes guarded and her face blank, but he knows instinctively that she is hurting, and he hates that she must carry this burden alone. Uncertain, he places his hand on her shoulder and squeezes, just a little, desperately hoping she will accept his helpless gesture. Her fingers slide over his a moment later, her hand warm through the leather of their gloves, silently accepting and drawing on his support.

Lost in remembering, he does not even notice he is staring at her so intently until she tilts her head his direction and moves around the fire toward him. He ducks his head, fighting down his embarrassment at being caught staring like a lecher and mumbles something awkward in greeting as she folds her legs beneath her and sits beside him.

"Are you feeling well?" she asks with a probing frown, her eyes holding his gaze. "You looked a little…lost."

Alistair forces out a laugh and turns to look at the fire, insanely paranoid that if he keeps eye contact with her she might catch some inkling of what he was really thinking moments before. "I'm fine, of course. How could I not be? None of the Dalish have killed me yet. There's wine, and song and stories, and not a darkspawn in sight!" Before he can close his mouth, the next words slide from his lips, casual and accompanied by a reflexive sidelong smirk at his elf. "And beautiful company to share it with, at that. What could be better?"

She blinks at him, her expression a mild version of the surprise she had displayed over his impulsive actions at the raspberry bush days earlier, and _that _memory makes his blush darken. Alistair bites his tongue to keep from babbling anything else. "Well," she says slowly after a pause, her eyes roving over the flicking flames in front of them, "I suppose one less Archdemon would be nice."

It is his turn to be surprised, and he laughs at the amused glance she gives him. "Well, we'll take care of that soon enough."

"Indeed we will," she agrees with a resolute nod of her head, but her lips are still curved up in a faint smile. "Then whatever will we do with ourselves?"

The question startles him more than he wants to let on, and the answers are flashing through his mind too quickly to make up something witty. Eventually he settles for an uneasy laugh and, "There'll always be more darkspawn in need of our services, Blight or no. And I, for one, am happy to serve them as a Grey Warden should."

Her smile flashes, quick and brilliant, and the tension he had not noticed in her shoulders seems to ease. "Well, at least we won't be bored."

"Hah, never that, dear lady."

They lapse into comfortable silence, but some odd emotion twists in Alistair's gut. He is not exactly sure, but he thinks they just agreed to continue traveling together even after the Blight is ended. He supposes he could just come out and ask her…but what if he is wrong? What if all she wants is to return to her people? What if…?

He stifles a sigh and drains his wine in a quick draught. Maker, how does this woman manage to cause him so much confusion?


	13. Chapter 13

"Tamlen…?"

No. It is not. _It cannot be_.

The creature cowers away from her drawn bow, the arrow ready to fly, but she cannot bring herself to let it loose on the twisted ghoul that whispers her name over and over like a broken prayer. She catches sight of its eyes again – perfect, sparkling sky blue, eyes she _knows_ – and her heart shatters all over again, disbelief and guilt clawing at her.

"No." Her voice cracks, breaking in her pinched throat. "You're _dead_. Duncan said…"

_You will not find him…he is gone…they would have taken him…_

Fury flares in her, white-hot and fierce, and she is glad Duncan is dead because she wants to _kill him_ right then. He never said Tamlen was dead. He let her assume…just let her believe the _lie_. What a fool she was to trust the word of a shem!

The creature whimpers, bring her back to reality and her sorrow smashes aside her anger as the bow goes lax and slides from her hands to clatter on the hard packed ground.

"Tamlen…" her voice wavers as she stretches a hand out toward her former clansmate. Memories drown her, days when both of them were young and beautiful and playing pranks on each other and starting fights with the older kids. Her chest aches so badly that she is surprised she can still draw breath. "I-I…I'm so sorry…I…"

"No!" With a hiss, the beast that was once an elf twists away from her touch, desperately scrambling back from her. "D-Don't touch me! I didn't…want you to see me…like _this_…but…"

Her hand falls back to her side and clenches into a fist. She fights back the tears that burn her eyes, her teeth grinding together until she thinks they will shatter. "I failed you," she manages to croak. "I…_failed_…"

"Stop! I-It…was…_too…late_!" Feverish but painfully familiar eyes _– the eyes are right, but the face is wrong, so horribly wrong_ – rise to hold her gaze, Tamlen's tortured features twisting in frustration and agony. "Nothing…nothing you could do. Was…my own fault…" With a growl, the tainted man clutches at his bald scalp with clawed fingers, and the woman follows helplessly as he stumbles back several more steps.

"Let me help you," she pleads softly, though she feels the lie cut at her like the sharpest of knives. There is no help for him and she knows this. She abandoned him to this fate nearly a year ago.

"I…hear him." Tamlen's hands fall away from his face, his blackened skin and broken teeth such a stark, unbearable contrast to those _eyes_. "He is in my head…calling me…_singing_…"

It takes her a moment to piece out what his growled but almost wistful words mean. "The Archdemon," she whispers, the tears threatening again, but she cannot break down, cannot be weak again and risk failing him _again_. She has to stay strong.

"Don't…want to hurt you." The ghoul takes a staggering step closer this time, his eyes suddenly bright with madness. "He wants me…to…_no! Stop me_…"

She understands and knows it is the right thing, the _only _thing she can give him, but she is weak despite her efforts. A single tear wins free and trickles cold down her cheek as she breathlessly mouths his name. "Tamlen…"

The feral gleam fades from his blue eyes for a moment, replaced by regret and sadness and just a hint of his old wry amusement. "I…always loved you…" he murmurs with a grimace that is probably a smile, his fingers flexing as if he is tempted to reach for her. "Should have told you…wasted…so much _time_…" His expression abruptly shifts and he lunges toward her, his nails biting into her skin as he grips her shoulders and hisses desperately, "Don't let me hurt you! _Please_!"

Later she will claim it is a defensive reflex that guides her hand to her belt in a flash, yanking the knife from its sheath and driving it deep into Tamlen's tainted heart. It is easier to blame instinct than face the truth. But it is not a need to protect herself that makes her reach for him as his body spasms once and begins to crumple. It is mercy, all of it. It is a debt repaid. The pain and heartbreak and miserable guilt she bears is the price of her failure, and she will carry the weight of this choice, _these choices_, forever.

"Thank…you…" be breathes one final time, his eyes tracing her features as he touches her cheek with one trembling hand. With a shudder, he grows still, and a cold emptiness settles over her in the deathly silence of the night.

It is an inhuman sound, the wail the breaks from her chest, but she does not really hear it, does not care if more darkspawn hear and come running. She feels it, though, the raw, primal scream that shreds the tender insides of her throat until all of the air in her lungs is gone and she will suffocate if she does not breathe. Perhaps that is for the best. Perhaps if she is dead she can make no more mistakes that lead to _this_.

But that option is not given to her as determined hands grasp her, dragging her to her feet. Strong arms circle her shoulders, pulling her against a broad chest, and she knows it is Alistair but she fights him all the same, twisting and shoving at him as uncontrollable sobs wretch out of her. He does not let go, his grip firm but not painful, and lets her thrash and rage against him for as long as she needs to. When the fights seeps out of her, all that is left is grief and emptiness, and she is no longer strong enough to contain it.

She weeps for the first time since she was a small girl, her whole body shaking with the force of her agonized sobs. Her arms find their way around Alistair's waist, her nails digging mercilessly into the muscles of his back through his tunic but he seems not to mind. She hears him murmuring soft, comforting nonsense against the crown of her head, feels his lips ghost a kiss against her forehead.

She is not certain, but she thinks she is telling him things, babbling on about Tamlen and who he was to her and how much she longs for her clan but knows she can never return. She tells him how lonely she feels protecting a human world that treats her with fear and hatred. She tells him of her guilt and the burden she carries, and it is not until he gently interrupts to tell her she is too hard on herself that she realizes she is indeed speaking out loud.

She falls silent, but lets him hold her a moment more. His fingers idly feather through her braided hair, the gesture as soothing and comforting as the slow, steady thumping of his heart under her ear.

"Thank you," she mumbles as she withdraws and slips away to her tent before he can say anything else.

The next morning, Alistair helps her bury Tamlen and plant a tree over his body. When it is finished, the human gently takes her hand, his expression serious and determined.

"Everything will be okay," he tells her firmly. "We'll see this thing through, together. I swear it."

And maybe she is a fool for having hope after everything that has happened, but she believes him.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** Fort Drakon is probably the main reason I started writing this fic. As a Dalish elf, you have the chance to say something to Alistair along the lines of, "I've never been in a cage before. Let's never do this again." It was one of the few times I really felt that the writers of DA gave the Dalish elf PC a chance to actually _feel _like a Dalish elf, instead of lumping them into the generic PC responses. I wish there were more chances to express sentiments like that one. Okay, I'll stop babbling now. Thank you very much for all the reviews!

Oh, and though there is no detailed description of my Dalish elf so that you, the reader, can picture her however you wish, I did a few sketches of who she is to me and put them up on my dA account. There's a link on my profile page if you'd like to see how I see her. :)

* * *

Alistair vows that he will _never_ go to prison again…and this is really not a thought he has ever expected to have in his Chantry-raised, law-abiding life, but there it is.

Fort Drakon might as well be the Black City itself, all cold, damp and hard, the air of their shared cell constantly filled with the cries of less fortunate prisoners farther down the hallway. He has no idea how long it has been since they were captured, nor does he pay any attention to the passing of time once he regains consciousness. The only thing his world is filled with is fear – fear for his fellow Grey Warden.

He finds her crumpled and unconscious by the door of the cell, the braids on the back of her head matted with dried blood. When she does not respond to his voice, he gently turns her onto her back and examines her for other wounds. It speaks volumes for his worry that he does not even feel the slightest embarrassment at handling her nearly naked body in such an intimate manner. Aside from the head injury, he finds nothing else wrong. Alistair rocks back on his heels and drags a hand through his hair, his gaze fixated on her face as if he can somehow will her eyes to open.

"Please wake up."

Alistair's whispered request echoes off uncaring stone walls, drowned out by distant screams of pain. Kneeling beside the unconscious elf, he can do nothing but wait and pray, hoping that she will find her way back to him as soon as possible because he is not sure how much longer he can stand being alone in this cell. A guard wanders by, but barely spares the Wardens a passing glance before he wordlessly continues his rounds.

Thinking she will be more comfortable on the ratty straw pallet in the back of the cell, Alistair reaches to lift the small elf and is startled when she shudders against him. He feels like a complete fool when he realizes just how freezing her normally warm skin is right now, and with a bitten off curse he carries her quickly toward the makeshift bed. He lowers himself to the floor, his back propped against the cold stone wall, and cradles the woman in his lap.

Holding a limp and unresponsive person while attempting to maneuver an uncooperative, moldy blanket around the both of them is as difficult as it sounds. Alistair moves as carefully as possible, terrified that he will jar the Dalish and reopen or worsen the wound on her head or drop her or somehow break her into a thousand tiny pieces. He is in a cold sweat from nerves and worry by the time he manages to wrap the filthy cloth around her shaking body, and it is only when he is certain she is as covered as possible that he allows himself to slump back against the wall. He holds her firmly tucked against his chest, hoping his own meager body heat will do the slight woman some amount of good.

Apparently it does, because after a few moments her body begins to calm and Alistair breathes a sigh of relief as he feels her muscles slowly unclench. He stares down at the top of her head resting against his chest, carefully moving a few braids back from her face with his one free hand. His gaze is drawn to her shoulder, where the blanket does not quite reach, and he traces the lines of the tattoos on her skin with his gaze. The markings cover nearly half of her face and body, twisted and patternless and reminding him vaguely of thorny rose stems or – he blinks in surprise – raspberry brambles.

He cannot imagine that the extensive tattoos actually have anything to do with the elf's unhealthy adoration of the nasty little berries, but the idea itself is incredibly amusing. And maybe he is just a little bit hysterical considering the circumstances and the fact that she is not yet conscious. As stupid and crazy as it is, Alistair cannot help himself – he laughs out loud, a sharp bark of sound that cuts through the stillness of the cell and shakes his whole body.

The Dalish groans and twitches against him, and he instantly feels both terrible and elated for his impulsiveness. "Shh," he soothes as she tries to open her eyes and lets out a hiss of pain instead. "You're safe. I'm here."

She relaxes a little at the sound of his voice and her fingers blindly flutter across his bare chest. "Alistair." Her voice is raw and quiet. "W-what…what's…"

"Just try to relax," he urges her as he catches her wandering hand and squeezes it. "We're in Fort Drakon…in prison."

Her reaction is what he expects. She straightens up sharply, the top of her head nearly clipping his chin, and her eyes snap open. She winces and shakes her head a few times, seeming to try to clear her head, but Alistair soothes her and tries to ease her back against his chest. "You're injured. Give yourself a moment. It's not like we're in a rush to go anywhere."

Her fingers slide from his grasp and move to explore the back of her head, and after a moment she seems to decide that there is nothing she can do about the injury and her hand falls away. Alistair watches her eyes dart around their cell, taking in the sight of the cold bars and solid walls. He feels her shudder before she whispers, "I…I've never been in a cage before…"

"Hey." Alistair catches her chin and tilts her face so he can look in her eyes as he speaks. Her face is lined with pain, but the edge of panic is unmistakable. "We _will _get out of here, I promise you that, but you need to stay calm. If you panic, I will too." He forces a tight smile. "And without my clever plans, we'll really be in trouble."

The elf stares at him for a long moment, then nods once. Alistair nods back, hoping his smile is reassuring and not desperate or broken, then lets his hand drop to her shoulder to pull her fully against him. She curls against his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin, and he sighs. There is nothing worse than waiting for the unknown.

"Just think of all the 'firsts' you gotten to enjoy in my company," he hears himself laugh after a few moments. The woman's hand is resting on his chest again, and he is vaguely aware that he is rolling the silky texture of one of her braids between his fingers. "Your first time drinking darkspawn blood. Your first time dreaming of the Archdemon. Your first time getting smacked by a High Dragon's tail…you managed to make that look very graceful, by the way." He cannot be sure, but he thinks he hears her chuckle under her breath and it is all the encouragement he needs to keep talking. "Your first time retching in the Deeproads. Not very graceful that time, I'm afraid. And now your first time in prison. I'll let you in on a little secret though." His voice drops to low, conspiratorial tones. "It's my first time too."

He feels a foolish jolt of embarrassment over saying something like _that _at a moment like _this_. It is at this point that the relief of having someone to talk to and believing she is going to recover pushes aside the bleak reality of their situation. He suddenly becomes painfully aware of the woman on his lap, the fact that she is wearing only her smallclothes and a disgusting blanket, and that this is all he is wearing as well. It is a really _bad_ time to think about such things, but when she rolls her head back against his shoulder so that she can look up at his face, her lips curved up into a faint smile, he is suddenly miles away from this cold prison cell.

She says nothing, but her eyes display her emotions. Warmth and gratitude draw him in, wrapping around his heart in a way he was not even sure was possible, and he cannot look away from her. He is not sure how or _why_, but somehow his lips brush against hers, just a fluttering question, an uncertain request. The voice in the back of his head demanding to know_ just what in Andraste's ass do you think you are doing_ almost wins out and he starts to pull away when he feels her fingers brush his face. "Alistair…" she breathes against his lips. Rational thought is no longer an option when she closes the distance and claims his mouth.

The moment is gone before it can even really begin. Alistair almost whimpers in protest when the elf jerks away and twists to face the cell door. It takes him a moment to realize that the guard has returned, and is leaning on the bars watching them, his face twisted in an insolent smile.

"Don't stop on my behalf," the guard grins mockingly. "I was all set on enjoyin' the show."

The Dalish is as tense as a bowstring, and Alistair can all but feel her fury simmering in the air. But she does something that he does not expect – she stands up, letting the blanket fall away from her, and stalks slowly toward the leering guard. She does not speak, and Alistair has no idea what expression is on her face, but the fool on the other side of the bars seems captivated, his greedy gaze dragging over the elf's body. Alistair wants nothing more than to cut the man's eyes out.

When the elf reaches the bars, the guard does not have the good sense to back away, and he even grins and chuckles as she reaches through the bars to let her fingers dance up his arms toward his shoulders. "The pretty boy ain't man enough for ya, eh knife-ears?" he quips with a nod toward Alistair. The elf still does not speak, but her hands make their way around the back of the guard's neck, and the daft fool does not even protest when she tips his helmet back away from his face. Raw lust is the last expression Alistair sees on his face before the Dalish grips him firmly by the back of his head and smashes his face against the unforgiving iron bars.

Alistair is on his feet before she calls for him, reaching through the bars to help her drag the bleeding, moaning guard close enough so that she can wriggle the keys off of his belt. The moment the cell door swings open, she stands over the barely conscious guard, her bare foot crushing against his throat as he struggles weakly. The elf spits on his face and with a snarl of anger, she bends down and snaps the guard's neck.

It is absolutely _not_ a sight that any sane person should find arousing. But at that moment, his mouth hanging open a little as he stares at the bloody, filthy, furious elf, Alistair cannot remember having seen anything more arousing in his life.

"Shemlen men are idiots," she growls as she strips the guard's weapons.

"Ouch," Alistair pouts, clutching his chest in mock pain with one hand as he accepts the sword she offers him with the other. "My pride, it burns."

She pauses, her expression softening as the anger is replaced by that same warm look she had only moments before. When she gently touches his cheek, her callused fingertips rasping over the stubble of his jaw, Alistair swears his pulse triples until he is sure his heart is going to burst through his chest.

"You are an exception," she says quietly with a small smile. Her hand drops back to her side and her expression hardens again. "We're leaving. Now."

Alistair gives a lopsided grin and trots after the determined woman. "Your desire is my command."


	15. Chapter 15

"No."

Arl Eamon sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose as he sinks down in an overstuffed chair. "Warden, I must ask you to reconsider," the noble presses, ignoring the way the elf narrows her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. "I understand that your people do not place much value in bloodlines and successions, but the Theirin line is _vital_ to the people of this nation. Without Alistair to unite the nobles, I cannot see how any peace will last. We _need_ your support at the Landsmeet tomorrow."

The Dalish barely moves, and her voice is only slightly more forceful as she repeats her one word answer. "No."

The aging human sighs again and his eyes travel from her unyielding expression to study Alistair instead. He is standing somewhere behind her, so she cannot see his face without turning around, but she hears him shift uncomfortably under the Arl's scrutiny.

"You have spoken with your fellow Warden on this matter?" Eamon asks of Alistair.

"I have." The elf does not turn around to look at her companion, but she is pleased to hear the calm confidence in his tone despite the discomfort that this whole meeting must give him.

"And she informed you that she would not support your bid for the throne?"

"She did." Alistair clears his throat faintly and adds, "Her opinion on that matter hasn't exactly been a secret…and it's never been _my_ bid for the throne, in case you've forgotten."

Arl Eamon ignores the quiet statement and presses, "And you are aware that without her, we will not likely be able to secure the throne in your family's name?"

"Yes," Alistair sighs. "I am aware of that."

Eamon's frustrations begin to seep into his words. "Are you truly so eager to toss aside your obligations?" he demands as he stands and paces a few steps across the room. "What of duty, Alistair? What of everything your father fought for? The boy I raised…"

She does not even care how that sentence ends because she cannot believe he even started it to begin with. "You mean the boy you cast aside," she sneers, cutting him off mid-word. She can feel Alistair's eyes bearing into the back of her head, but she does not care what he thinks. Some things simply must be said, and this is one of them. "You mean the child who was _your_ obligation, but you cast away for the sake of a jealous, selfish woman. Again, you dare to speak of duty, of obligations, but it is clear to anyone with eyes that you know nothing of either."

Anger flashes sharp and fierce across the usually stoic man's face, and she feels a twisted sense of victory at the thought of shattering his noble demeanor into a thousand, meaningless pieces. But either Eamon has far more control over himself than she expects, or he is a better man than she believes because he draws in an unsteady breath and lowers his head in contrition.

"I need no one to remind me of my own shortcomings," comes his quiet reply. When he meets her suspicious gaze, his eyes are sad but firm. "I have made my share of mistakes over the years, and I make no claim to the contrary. But this is too important, more important than you or me or Alistair or the mistakes of the past."

"_Nothing_ is more important than the Blight," she explains coldly. "No duty is greater than fighting the darkspawn and slaying the Archdemon."

"You need a united Ferelden in order to do that!" Eamon insists in near exasperation.

She nods in agreement. "It _will_ be united."

It takes Eamon a moment to process this, and when he sorts it out, his expression shifts to shock and then something like betrayal. "You have spoken with Anora." It is not a question, and it is steeped in bitterness.

"I have," she agrees without bothering to hide her smug tone.

The Arl's gaze flickers to Alistair. "You knew of this?"

"No." Alistair's answer is slow and deliberate and almost sounds like a question. It is the first time the Dalish has felt tempted to turn around and look at him, but she does not take her eyes off Eamon.

"Are you truly comfortable with allowing this…" she can all but hear the terms _elf, savage, woman_ rolling around in the Arl's head when he hesitates, "Grey Warden decide this for you? Decide the future of our country, _your_ future?"

Her hand moves to curl around her hunting knife and she takes a sharp step closer to Eamon before Alistair can give his answer. "Let me make something very clear to you, shem," she spits, her temper smoldering. "I claim no hold over my fellow Warden. He is free to do as he deems necessary, just as I am free to give my support to Anora. If Alistair wishes to be your puppet-"

"I'm stand right here, you know," Alistair grumbles, but she ignores him.

"-then that is his choice, and I will respect it. Whether you or he or anyone else wish to acknowledge it or not, Alistair's life is not his own, just as my life is not my own – we belong to the Grey Wardens. If he wishes to deny the oath that cannot be foresworn, then that is his right, but I will not be party to it."

She turns her back on the glowering noble without a parting word. Alistair catches her glance as she strides past him, his frown thoughtful and his eyes guarded. She barely feels it and she is pretty sure no one else notices, but he gently brushes his fingers against the back of her hand as she passes. Her anger fades at the touch, and by the time she reaches the hallway, she is smiling softly to herself, though she is not entirely sure why.

She is nearly to her room when she hears hurried footsteps rushing after her. Alistair nearly collides with her as he rounds the corner, stammering an apology as he grips her shoulders for balance. His arms fall back to his sides and there is an awkward, expectant pause.

"I-I just…" he starts, then sighs and tries again. "Look, Eamon is just dying to lecture me for a few more hours, but I really needed to say…" his expression softens into a half smile, "thank you."

She shakes her head, confused. "For?"

His laugh is light and sweet, and she feels a strange tingle of excitement when he steps closer and gazes down at her. "For being you."

The Dalish lifts an eyebrow, fighting back the urge to grin foolishly at him. That is his job, is it not? "I don't know how to be anyone else," she answers with a playful shrug, and she immediately decides that he is rubbing off on her way too much for her own good.

"Thank the Maker for that." He raises one hand to trace the tattooed swirls on her cheek, his gaze soften by a lingering smile. "You know, you cut me off before I could give my answer."

She blinks, wanting to slap herself for how distracting his touch is. Her face feels warm, and that is complete foolishness because she is _not_ a blushing maiden in any sense of the term. "Answer?"

"Mm-hmm." Alistair's other arm circles her waist in a light, undemanding embrace. She could easily move away if she so desires, but right now she has absolutely no idea what she wants to do. And that is not at all like her either. "Eamon asked me if I'm comfortable letting you decide my future. The answer is yes."

The elf is not sure if it is possible to forget how to breathe but that is the closest approximation to what she feels at the moment. The intensity of Alistair's gaze, all warmth and trust and contentment, is too much for her to take in, and she dips her face, resting her forehead against the human's chest. "That's…a lot of responsibility," she murmurs around a faint whisper of a laugh. "I'm not sure I want that kind of…thing."

"Well," Alistair says with a laugh of his own, "it's too late to worry now. You already have me. Scary, isn't it?"

She smiles against his tunic then hesitantly slides her arms around his middle to pull him into a true embrace. He makes a gentle humming sound of approval and practically wraps himself around the small woman. Somewhere in the back of her mind she tries to puzzle out just how in the world they ended up like this, but between the hand stroking through her hair and the strong, soothing beat of Alistair's heart under her ear, the elf decides it is not worth wondering over. The darkspawn taint has ensured that their lives are intertwined, inseparable, and she cannot find a reason to deny what her heart so clearly desires.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** Thanks loads for the reviews! :3 There's actually only one more chapter after this one...

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Alistair paces the breadth of his room, feeling awkward and exposed without his armor to cover him. Life has become such a routine that he does not know how to be up and about and mentally preparing for battle without the comforting weight of metal encasing his limbs. He glances at the unused bed, telling himself again that he should rest and get some sleep before dawn. But he knows he will not be able to close his eyes. No…moving is better than holding still. Moving means he is alive, and for the first time in his life, time feels desperately short.

Riordan's words echo in his mind, coil around his heart like a serpent, sink to the pit of his stomach with the weight of a thousand stones. He feels like a fool for not seeing this coming. It makes perfect sense, and Alistair feels like the question of _why_ is finally answered. This is why the Grey Wardens were formed. This is their purpose. This is the duty that cannot be foresworn, and the reason their sacrifices are necessary. But the satisfaction of knowing the answer is dulled to nothing by the stark realization that at least one of them _will_ die very soon. Death has always been a certainty, but it has never before felt so…immediate.

Alistair groans out a sigh and drags his fingers through his hair, mindless of how it musses into messy little spikes. His eyes flicker to the door for the innumerable time as he argues with himself again and again. He wants to go to her on what could easily be their last night alive. He wants to knock on her door and take her in his arms and show her how much he loves her even though he has no idea how to do it _right_, so that it means as much to her as it does to him. He keeps hoping she will make it easy on him and come to him, but it feels like half the night has passed and here he is still alone in his room.

A quiet knock on the door startles him so badly that he stumbles and curses under his breath, then mentally berates himself for being so jumpy. When the door swings open, he can only gawk stupidly at his Dalish elf staring up at him. He starts to smile, to give a nervous laugh and tell her that she must be able to read his mind or something, but his brow furrows in concern when he notices she is wearing her armor. And carrying her bow. And has her Mabari at her side.

The dog gives him a sad look, then whines a plaintive question at his master. The elf's face shows a confusing blend of anxiety, determination and a raw but barely noticeable edge of pain. Alistair steps aside, and after she motions for the hound to remain in the hallway, she moves into his room and waits for him to close the door. She stands still, her head bowed, her back toward him, and Alistair has no idea what to say or do but the tension in the room is so thick that he is half convinced he can reach out and poke it.

He takes a single step forward, his mouth open to speak – because he _cannot_ handle this kind of silence – when she turns sharply and fixes him with a grim stare. "I have something to say…something to tell you." Alistair has heard from older, wiser men that when a woman begins a conversation in this way, it will never, _ever_ end well. Her jaw flexes and works for a moment, and when she speaks again her words come in short, staccato phrases, as if they stick in her throat. "Morrigan believes there is a way to avoid losing a Warden to the Archdemon."

Alistair blinks in surprise, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the door as he absorbs this information. "Morrigan. Yes…well. How exactly does Morrigan know so much about this particular subject?"

"She claims to have knowledge of a ritual." The woman's words are still stiff and stilted, her whole body tense, and she is having a hard time keeping eye contact with him. "A ritual that was Flemeth's, and presumably the whole reason she sent her 'daughter' with us in the first place."

"O…kay," Alistair says with a slow nod. "_But_ Flemeth is dead now…so…"

"Morrigan wishes to go through with it all the same." The elf cannot even look at him as she says this, and Alistair has such a bad feeling about where this is going that he almost wants to stop asking questions. But some part of him _demands_ to know what is going on, _knows_ that it is too late to ignore what has been said so far.

"Because…it could potentially save one of our lives?" The Dalish looks up at him determinedly, but neither agrees nor disagrees with his statement. Alistair clears his throat, irritated with himself for not being intuitive enough, and with her for being so damned difficult to read. "Uh-huh. What's the catch?"

"To perform the ritual, you must bed her. Here. Tonight."

It is like being slapped in the face. No, it is more like being punched in the throat and _kneed_ in the face. Alistair's eyes widen, his expression expectant, waiting for some tiny sign that the woman is joking or lying or _anything_ other than completely serious…but she _is_ serious. The pain he spotted in her eyes is brighter now, edging out the anxiety, but she is as resolute as ever, her jaw set in a hard, unyielding line.

He tears his eyes away from her and begins to pace, his words tumbling out in a babbled mess of nonsense. "Bed? Bed Morrigan? For a…_ritual_? _Flemeth's_ ritual! Here? Are you…? You can't be…you're…_really_ asking me to do this?"

"No." She makes a harsh slashing gesture through the air with her hand as she loudly snaps out the word. "I am not _asking_ you to do anything. I am _telling_ you because I believe it's only fair that you know all the options."

"Only fair? _Options?_" Alistair stares at her in astonishment, a half-hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat as he tortures his hair with another rough swipe of his hand. "Nonono, I…why are _you_ coming to me with this? Why didn't…why isn't Morrigan doing her own…propositioning?"

"Because she wants me to talk you into it." Alistair has no idea how she can be so calm about all of this. A stupid, spiteful voice in the back of his head wonders if he was wrong about the Dalish elf – does she not care for him the way he cares for her? Is it normal for a woman to try to convince a man she cares about to sleep with another woman? Surely _someone_ would have told him if this were the case! "But that isn't why I came," she adds softly, cutting off his internal turmoil. "I just wanted you to know."

"Well," another not-quite-normal laugh escapes him, "now I know."

She nods once, her eyes as hard as stone as she takes a step toward the door. "And now I'm leaving."

"Leaving?" Suddenly Morrigan is the last thing on his mind because he has nearly forgotten that the woman is armed and armored. "You can't…where are you going?"

She stares at the door, pausing mid-stride, her forehead wrinkled in a deep frown. "I need to get…outside for a few hours," she whispers, and he recognizes the haunted gleam in her eyes. It is a pale shadow of what he saw in the Deeproads, but he understands well enough how little she likes being trapped inside high stone walls. "I'll be back before the army marches at dawn, I swear it."

"But…" Alistair begins helplessly, but the elf cuts him off.

"Morrigan is in my room. I told her to be patient, but you know how she is. Alistair…" she breathes his name slowly and turns her face to look at him. Her guard slips away, leaving him staring into eyes that brim with sadness and worry and something like desperation. "I don't want to lose you. But this is one decision I can't make for you. I won't."

He starts to reach for her, to pull her to him, to kiss her or hold her or shake her until those awful emotions fade from her eyes – but she is already gone. He hears the Mabari's nails click against the stones as he trots after his silent master until that sound too fades away, leaving a stunned Alistair to ponder his options alone.


	17. Chapter 17

Death is warm and dark.

And snores. And…smells like dog fur?

_No_, she decides, _that can't be right at all._

Death is probably also not accompanied by as much pain and discomfort as she feels right now. At least she hopes not. Slowly she becomes aware of herself – breathing…yes, breathing is a good sign of being less than dead. Sense of smell, definitely…eyes…eyes that are too dry to open…mouth that tastes like moldy bathwater. Arms, legs, fingers, toes – everything _aches_, dull and constant, but seems to be in working order, or at least attached in its proper place. This apparently includes her stomach, which suddenly lets out a loud, painful growl.

Bone-numbing weariness makes it difficult for her to convince her body to do anything but remain wrapped in her cocoon of warm darkness. The command for her eyes to open – because this seems to be the least complicated and most productive thing she can do – takes several minutes to be carried out. Everything is a blurry, unfocused mess that makes her head pound, but her struggle is cut short by the sudden assault of a warm, slobbery Mabari tongue.

The hound whines in muted elation, his whole body wiggling against her as he snuffs at his elf's face. The woman, torn between a weak protest and a tiny, uncontrollable giggle, lacks the strength to fight off the attack of adoration, and the Mabari seems to sense this, settling back against the curve of the front of her body. He stares at her with big, happy eyes, his little nub of a tail wriggling so fiercely that the whole bed trembles. She smiles at him, realizing he is the source of the smell that invaded her dreams, as well as the wonderful heat soaking into the front of her.

Her vision is improving, and she frowns as she glances past the dog to her surroundings. It is a large room with cold, high stone walls. There is the faint, lingering scent of smoke hanging in the air, and she can see what look to be scorch marks and possibly bloodstains high on the walls where it would be hard for anyone to clean. Is…she still in Denerim? How did she end up in this bed?

Her last memories are fragmented and unclear. She remembers the screaming, vividly, of both enemies and allies. She remembers darkspawn _everywhere_, pouring out of every doorway like tainted rivers, flooding the streets, the palace hallways, the roof of the Fort. She remembers the Archdemon, and Alistair crying out for her to _stop, wait, don't! _

The memories go dark at that point, and she wants so badly to try to remember, but thinking of Alistair sends a jolt of fear through her and she tries to sit up. Her body fails her and she cannot even push the heavy blankets off, and there seems to be an extra weight around her middle that will not budge. She twists as best she can, trying to turn over and feeling more than a little frantic. She ignores the concerned whine of her hound and the black dots that swim on the edges of her vision, because she _must know_ what is going on, what has happened, where is…

Worried brown eyes are suddenly all she sees, and she slumps flat on her back against the pillows, limp from some combination of relief, surprise and weariness. Alistair blinks owlishly at her, his arm tightening around her waist. "You're awake," he murmurs in a voice thick with sleep and disbelief.

_He_ is the reason her back is so warm, she realizes numbly, and the reason for the snoring that woke her. And here she was, ready to blame the hound for that. The human at her side was obviously sleeping only moments before, his hair all a mess and his expression still dazed and unfocused. His clothes are all wrinkled, his jaw shadowed with thick stubble – and yet he is the best thing she has ever seen right now. He is resting atop the blankets, curled around her wrapped form…protecting her. Guarding her.

A lump settles in the elf's throat, and there are suddenly so very many things she wants to tell him, but she can only stare at him – though, in all fairness, that seems to be all he is capable of as well. She memorizes every flaw, every scar, every fleck of dark gold in his eyes because she is now so acutely aware of how _fleeting_ life is, and this feels something very much like a second chance. It does not matter than he is a shem and that she has no clan – they are Grey Wardens, together the same.

"You're alive." Her voice is breathless and unsteady. Alistair's eyes soften as he gently touches her cheek, stroking the corner of her mouth with his thumb. And of course, her mind chooses this moment to latch onto the worst possible thing to say. "You slept with Morrigan."

It is more of an observation than an accusation, but the way Alistair grimaces and glances away from her makes her feel terrible. He shakes his head and fixes her with a wry stare. "You know, I spent hours locking away that memory, sealing it far, _far_ from the rest of my mind with _painstaking_ care and effort, and you just up and undo all my hard work. Such a cruel woman you are."

Despite his faint smile and the gentle touch of his fingers against her face, the elf can see the guilt lingering in his eyes. "No," she tries to protest, fishing for the right words. "I'm not…I just…I didn't think you would actually go through with it."

Alistair blows out a long breath then reaches to pull her against him. The elf does not protest – and truthfully she lacks the strength to stop him even if she wants to, which she does not – and wriggles closer to him, her face buried in his chest. He does not want to look at her while he talks, and she can hardly blame him.

"I didn't think I would either," he begins after a moment. "I…still don't know if I made the right choice, but I guess I have to live with it now. After you left, I started thinking…"

She cannot help but tease him, just a little, wanting him to know that she is not blaming him for anything. "Sounds dangerous," she murmurs.

"You know," Alistair's voice holds no hint of amusement, "it is. It _really_ is. So, don't let me do it again, hmm?" She smiles into his tunic.

"Anyway," Alistair sighs, "I thought about what you said, when you left, about not wanting to lose me. I didn't want to lose you either." He pauses and she can hear the frown in his voice when he quietly speaks again. "That sounds so…weak, put like that. It's more like…I _wouldn't_ lose you, or…wouldn't _let you_ be lost." She feels him nod against her hair. "I wouldn't let you take the killing blow, not if I was alive to do it myself. And…I knew you wouldn't let me take it either, if you could stop me."

The elf manages to slip one hand free of the blankets and idly tugs at the laces on the neck of Alistair's tunic. "That would have left us at quiet an impasse," she comments softly.

The human tilts his head back to look down at her face, his eyes revealing a touch of surprise. "Yes, my thought exactly," he says with a bit too much forced levity. "I mean, however would we have done our duty if we're too busy fighting each other for the _honor_ of the killing blow? So…this just seemed like the logical solution."

There is so much more to it, there must be, and she nearly says this out loud, but something in his expression stops her. And what does it matter now? It is done and they are alive and the Archdemon is dead. If something terrible does come from this, they will face it head on. Together. Just as they always do.

Her stomach chooses this moment to voice its protests at being ignored. Alistair chuckles softly and brushes his lips across her forehead before he rises from the bed. "You've been unconscious for days," he explains as he bends to pull on his boots. "I'll see if I can find you a little something to eat."

The elf does not reply. Her eyes trace the outline of his figure as he moves, from that handsome face, to his large, strong hands, to the pleasant contour of his backside. She knows it is almost certainly because of nearly losing him, but he really is easy on the eyes, and she is grinning to herself when he turns around to give her a curious look.

_Morrigan got you for one night. I want you every night for the next thirty years._

Alistair blushes and runs a hand through his hair, and the Dalish only then realizes that her words were spoken aloud. She is not sure whether to be embarrassed or apologetic, but those thoughts flee when Alistair leans over the bed, his face hovering above hers. His fingers play through her hair and gently caress the pointed tip of her ear, and she can feel the smile on his lips as he brushes a kiss against her mouth.

"I can live with that," he murmurs warmly.

"Good," she whispers between light kisses. "Now – food. I think…_cheese_. Yes, definitely cheese."

Alistair moans, a full-throated, rumbling sound that makes her lips tingle and she cannot help but laugh at the expected reaction. "If I wasn't in love with you already, that would have done the trick right there."

The elf smiles, heedless of the cold room in the half-destroyed palace of a human city that was nearly consumed by the Blight. Looking into Alistair's eyes, this foreign world is far away and unimportant, because when his loving gaze is on her, she knows she is right where she belongs.

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**A/N:** I don't know when I became a sucker for happy endings. It probably has something to do with the way _none _of my DA games have had a truly happy ending. So...fluffy it is! Thank you all for reading and reviewing. This is such a fun community to write for right now. I'm pretty sure this won't be the last story I post, not if my overactive muse has anything to say about it anyway.


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